Paroles
1. From the fair Lavinian shore
I your markets come to store
Muse not 'tho so far I dwell
And my wares come here to sell
Such is the sacred hunger of gold,
Then come to my pack, while I cry,
« What d'ye lack, what d'ye buy
For here it is to be sold.
2. I have beauty, honour, grace,
Fortune, favour, time and place ;
And what else thou wouldst request,
E'en the thing thou lik'st the best.
First let me have a touch of thy gold ;
Then come to me lad, thou shalt have
What thy dad never gave,
For here it is to be sold.
3. Madam, for your wrinkled face,
Here's complexion it to grace,
Which, if your earnest be but small,
It takes away the virtue all ;
But if your palms are anointed with gold,
Then come to my pack, you shall seem
Like a queen of fifteen,
Though you are three score years old.
